


Scenes From Country Life

by CopperBeech



Series: The Squire's Wife [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Baking, Cat adoption, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dialogue Heavy, Domestic Fluff, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Married Couple, Nipple Play, Pillow Talk, Smut, body jewelry, flirtation, kitchen disaster, music metaphors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28390035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: Some light snacks between courses for readers who wanted more of my human musician AUThe Greater Tadfield Friends Of Music Autumn Concert-- a bit of sexy married life, a bit of wistful remembrance, a bit of kitchen disaster, a bit of pillow talk. Tadfield is about to claim Crowley even more firmly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Squire's Wife [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079246
Comments: 124
Kudos: 88





	1. New Toys

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be updated with more characters and situations; the Tadfield of _Autumn Concert_ has earned a second visit, a couple of years down the road in story time. I'm quite recklessly posting these before even getting in the saddle with the gestating longer story arc, but they just came flying out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the holidays and I can write smut if I want to. Anthony Crowley, aka the Squire's Wife of Tadfield, has something new and pretty to show off to his husband.

“I’m ever so eager, dear. Let’s see.”

The sticking plaster hasn’t really been necessary for a week or two now, but it seemed like a bit of fun to keep it under wraps. He’d chosen a box of them in a whimsical little tattoo design, the scuffed-knee size so as not to pull too many of the hairs clustered close to the nipple. Good luck with that. Might as well’ve gotten a Brazilian wax.

“Oh, dear, that must have hurt a bit coming off… It’s lovely. Understated, but sumptuous. May I touch?”

“That’s, uh, kinda the point.”

“And it’s perfectly safe to move it about now?”

“ ’s what they said.”

"Pure gold always has such a beautiful sheen. Oh, you can feel that, can’t you? Is that all right?”

“Give’s your hand.” It’s a good deal more than _all right_. That tiny toggling movement of the gold ring, fine gauge but heavy enough to make itself felt, shoots a dispatch back to Headquarters that’s got Crowley almost immediately hard. Aziraphale toys with the ring gently, as if he’s turning a light off and on.

“Y’can give it a little tug.”

“Is that safe?”

“A _little_ one. A – aaah.” This time it’s impossible to keep his hips from bucking.

“You must be uncomfortable in all those clothes. You favor such _restricting_ garments.”

“Like bein’ restricted.”

“Oh, don’t I know. But I _should_ so love to see the effect I’m having. This was such an unexpected impulse of yours.”

“Just saw the place an’, well…”

“We should drive down to London oftener. Ah, there we are. Very lovely. Lift up a bit, do let me just admire that. Like this? Just the slightest movement? Oh my – one can actually _see_ what it does. I’m very tempted just to keep on with this. You’re so susceptible. Is a kiss all right?’

”Waited an extra week. Should be.”

“I’ll be very gentle. Though I do think I could simply devour you. Oh, heavens, what a lovely little thing _you_ are. I’ve missed you under all those ridiculous plasters.”

“Said you thought they were – ssshhhh –– clever.”

“Well. Amusing. How is that?

“ _Good,_ angel – “ Crowley’s never lost his fondness for the pet name, especially in circumstances like this one, feeling his new adornment flicked tenderly with the velvet tip of a small, agile tongue; barely scraped with sharp teeth that graze over a nipple so full, and still a little sore, that he can feel his heartbeat in it.

“Oh my goodness. I’d say adjourn to the bedroom, but I really can’t tear myself away for a second.”

“Can always – ah – wash the throw."

“We may need to.” There’s a warm, thready trickle alongside his navel where a little anticipatory pump of his cock’s already left a message. “Or perhaps I ought to get between my furniture and the source. It’s quite your fault I had to buy all these throws, you know.”

“Y’like buying nice things.”

“Like pretty gold rings. Here we are, sit back against me – just let your head rest by mine, lovely, I know how sensitive your ears are… no, dear, I’m keeping your arms right where they are. No touching. This is all for you. You _did_ say you like being _restricted.”_

“God. Put _your_ hand on it then.”

“You wouldn’t tell me what to do, would you?”

“Tell you what I _want._ You can – “

“Yes. I’ll choose. You know I like to take my time.”

“Not sure I _can_ – “

“Oh, I am. Perfectly sure. Where’d I put that – I do remember last time – ah. Slipped down in the cushions. We must tidy before the Pulsifers come round on Saturday.”

There’s the little pop of a bottle cap, and he knows what’s coming and arches into the one arm that’s still pinning his to his side, the hand clasping his other wrist. Those hands are light and agile on the keys of a bassoon, absolute iron when they choose to be.

“Legs wide open now, my beauty – let me in here – I can only just reach, I fear I’ll be a frightful tease… oh. That always feels so lovely. Like a kiss.”

It’s not clear how much it’s a matter of _just reaching_ or merely one of being a tantalizing bastard. Those fingers are soft, perfectly manicured, blunt, thick. They stroke lightly over the tender pucker at his root as if they’re pondering some obscure Braille dialect. The other hand’s back on the ring, barely nudging. It doesn’t take much. He’s wriggling like a snake, sensation coming in from all quarters. Soft little tongue in the hollow of his ear, a whisper of “Not yet. Not anywhere near yet.”

There’s no way to get leverage, his feet are barely trailing the floor, the arm clamped against him isn’t going anywhere. That little flicker of pressure is all he’s going to get for the moment.

“Tell me how much you want this.”

“Really bad.”

“Do be more specific, dear. I want to know how important it is for me to go forward.”

“Feels like –– got a cramp there where your hand is. Like your leg when you wake up at night. Need it.”

“Does this make you want it more?”

Slipping just inside. There’s that little satiny ribbon of tightness before everything opens up. Aziraphale’s made him play with it himself, so as to watch. _Show me how you like it, dear._

“Hard to – “

“Oh yes, it is. I can see, you know.” Teasing the ring again, more movement this time. “That’s all right?”

“Fuck, _please_ – “

“In good time. All for you, remember.” The stroking at his entrance is rhythmic now, deeper, almost-but-not-quite deep enough, and the ring’s moving in the same steady tempo, infinitesimal nudges that ripple through his belly muscles, leaving him oddly light and shivery. He’s starting to float a little bit, the place he gets to when someone else is taking charge of everything, knows he wants to give up. Breath’s coming on the top inch of his lungs. The ends of his hair are tracing over his collarbones and that’s luminous too, trails he can imagine lighting up on his skin in a random web; both nipples feel tautly full and the right one feels puffy around its pretty decoration.

“You’re making a dreadful mess, dear. Do you know how much I love to see that? Let’s see if I can make you messier – “ The finger draws out and two slide back in, working further up this time, hitting – ah god, _there._ With such a light touch. No way to bear down. “Let me work at my own pace, you’re far too great a delicacy to gorge all at once – there, a little slower, oh, you _are_ very ready – have I been neglecting you? I must give you a bath later, you deserve some pampering – you do try my self-control, now – I think I really must touch.”

It’s the lightest brush over the nest of crimped hairs, sparing his nipple for a moment, makng it ache for another touch, but _god please_ so close to his straining cock. He almost jackknifes forward when a single fingertip runs up it, plays in the stickiness smeared over his belly. Tries to push toward a hand that dances away.

“You want something very much, don’t you?”

Breath that’s one long cycle, that almost can’t decide whether it’s going in or out. “Yeah.”

“You must do better than that, dear. Tell me what you want.”

“Make me come.”

“With this hand? Or this one? What shall I do? Be as crude as you like, my love. We’re in private.” Aziraphale has yet to utter indelicate language in Crowley’s hearing, but he’s sweetly imperious when he asks to hear it, knowing how irresistibly wrong it feels to Crowley, knowing how it pushes him over. _My dear, what ever would the good villagers of Tadfield think if they knew their squire’s wife had such a wicked mouth?_

“Wanna fuck your fist _–_ blow a load all over your fancy throw, angel, you’ll always know it’s there – _“_

“Like this?”

“Tighter – _Christ,_ going to – let me move – “

“Did I say it was time yet?”

A moment of perfect stillness. There are old films of the dancer Nureyev performing all but impossible leaps, and perhaps it’s just the technology of the era, but in some of them he appears to hang suspended at the crest of a parabola, for a moment defying the grip of gravity by an act of will. It’s like that: everything’s straining towards completion, and when Aziraphale whispers “Now, dear,” for a moment he’s still frozen, and then it’s his own voice in a wordless keen as he plummets, sounding as if it’s coming from some distant corner of the cottage, with the haunting echo that surrounds speech heard on the edge of sleep. The warm spatter and trickle over his flank is equally faraway, something happening in the next universe over. He’s a mile outside his skin, bodiless and pulsing.

“Terribly providential that there are only orchards across the way,” says Aziraphale when he’s drifted for minutes or hours. “You quite rival some of Mrs. Potts’ high notes.” The slow, hypnotic circling of a warm palm over his sticky, fluttering belly. “Which reminds me, she’s invited us to a streaming broadcast party on Sunday afternoon. One of her old performances. A retrospective, _Poppaea,_ I believe… I know the Baroque isn’t your favourite, but if things get dull, I’ll just remind you from time to time about plans for later. Very discreetly. Like this.”

The feather stroke over the gold ring is the core of a fractal ripple spreading through him. Nothing to do but lie there and let it.

“Can you stand? Let’s get you into the bath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Department of Do Not Try This At Home: fact is, I have no experience of body piercings at all (other than working around them on massage clients, and needless to say, that doesn’t include one like this). The whole idea came from reminiscing about a fangirl mailing list I joined back in the 90s, devoted to Garth Ennis (Preacher, Hellblazer), which you can imagine was a pretty random buncha babes. Some of them went on to found the webzine Sequential Tart. (I, um, may have come up with the name. Right before I had to get off the list because my early Erols Internet account literally couldn’t handle the number of messages that came in overnight. Hindsight is 20/20.)
> 
> They also were very matter of fact about things like their intimate body jewelry, spontaneous orgasms at the vegetable counter from bumping a nipple piercing into a grocery cart, or instant arousal from being restrained. It was all remarkably instructive. No information is ever wasted.


	2. Joy Of Man's Desiring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to a place of past happiness, and two brief conversations.

It’s a very small churchyard, and indifferently maintained, but someone’s cared enough to plant sedums in the urns that top the gateposts, and look after them. Crowley can always tell.

“She didn’t have a proper will, you know. Solicitors cost money, and she didn’t have lots to spread around. I came home from Uni and packed her things up and gave them to Oxfam, except for the couple of rings she had from her Gran. Family didn’t want much to do with her after she told ’em I was on the way, and _where’s dad then?_ Far’s they cared we could just go to Hell.”

Aziraphale briefly squeezes his hand.

“ ‘S’over here. We were only here about a year, but it’s the place she was happy. She had a situation in the rectory. Cleanin’, the priest was an old souse but a good ‘un, she used to walk him back to bed when he had a skinful. Sometimes asked me to help, she wasn’t big. He’d always say he’d been meditatin’. Lost the position after he died, but it was more’n the job. He didn’t judge her.”

It’s a small headstone with the name and dates carved generically, the standard issue of grave markers.

“Pretty sure it was all codswallop myself even back then, but she got something out of it. Goin’ to services, tryin’ to sing, never could, y’know. I played with the organist for services once. _Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring._ Didn’t make too much of a bollocks of it.”

“I’m sure you played beautifully.”

“Yeah, well, bishop remembered me at least. So here she is.”

Crowley drops to his knees, brushing the heads of grasses gone to seed away from the plain chiseled inscription. “Hullo, Ma. Miss you.”

It’s a small bouquet, dominated by a spray of gladioli – they grow against the back fence in Tadfield, like the reblooming iris and the crocosmia.

“Pretty soon I’ll’ve been alive without her longer’n I was with her, y’know? Still come back though. She didn’t have anyone else really.” Aziraphale doesn’t miss how he positions the flowers against the granite with an art that says someone cares about the display they make, as if it’s in their sitting room or the new conservatory they’re building out the back of the cottage.

“Like you to meet Aziraphale, Ma. Married me, you believe that? Looks after me proper.” He settles into a more natural position on the turf, ankles crossed. “You’d like talkin’ music with ‘im. No end to his collection.” Crowley glances up. “She had a cheap little player and a stack of discs she’d get in the secondhand shops. Liked the musical shows too. Not my thing so much.”

He adjusts the flowers an inch to uncover the last letters of the inscription. “Wish you could see my garden. Got me some vassals now, helpin’ dig the new beds.” He hasn’t vacated Nasturtium Cottage yet, maybe he’ll let it in the Spring, as long as he can keep some turf rights; the sun’s good for the vegetable patch, the apple tree is his personal charge. “Nice kids, nothin’ like that gang used to wind me up at Secondary. There’s other boys take the piss out’ve Wensley now’n’then, for bein’ clever, you remember what it was like, and I tell him what you used to tell me. _You’ve got more to be proud of than they do.”_

A silence draws out after that, and he reaches up for Aziraphale’s hand.

“I hope you’d’ve still said that if. Well, if you knew.”

“My dear. Whatever makes you imagine she didn’t?”

“Well. Hardly knew myself till I was at Uni, did I? Up till then I kept tellin’ myself it was just somethin’ I’d get over. Even there, too busy packin’ in classes, trying to make the day come sooner when I’d be able to take care of her. Thing or two happened in student housing, said to myself it was just easier than tryin’ to have a _love life,_ dating up birds, tryin’ to get to first base and all. Didn’t really start – doin' the bars n'that till I already had my first job. Kind of couldn’t stop after.”

“I’m glad you have now.”

“Me too.” Crowley stands. “Let’s go up and see if the rector’s in. Forgot to call. I always drop off a little dosh to help keep this place nice, looks like it could do with some mowin’ and weedin’.”

“Would you mind if I stopped here? It’s a very lovely day, and this is quite peaceful.”

“Uh – nah. I’ll come back for you.”

Aziraphale waits until he’s passed through the gate, and turns back.

“Thank you for giving the world such a lovely person,” he says quietly. “He’s quite the dearest thing that ever came into my life, and I promise always to take the best care of him. He’s so much better, and sweeter, and kinder than he imagines. You deserved so many more years with him.”

It’s astonishingly silent when he pauses; they’re far enough from the road that there’s no sound of cars passing, no one else is here on a weekday afternoon, there’s only an occasional bird call and the hum of a bee that’s interested in the red crocosmia.

“He told me once how cross you got when he tore his clothes, because there wasn’t that much money and new ones would have to wait till he grew out of them. And then mended them so it didn’t show. I felt a bit envious really. I know it sounds wrong, but I’d have rather liked either of my parents to take enough interest to be cross. Father was always doing Terribly Important Things, and Mother was wearing herself out trying to fit into the life the family had planned for her. I believe I was a bit of an afterthought. They paid people to mind me.”

On the other side of the rectory there’s the sound of the Bentley’s door opening, closing again. It’s a sound he’s come to know like the whistle of his teakettle or the notes of his bassoon, a sound that says _home_ more than anything ever has, even though Tadfield’s been his home for decades. It’s home when there’s someone to come home to.

“In any event I’ve got a family now. I suppose that makes us related, really. I do believe we’ve even got some nephews and a niece, and you might like Mother Shipton. She seems to have taken up permanent residence in the conservatory even if it’s not finished. Quite a fright, one eye and a shredded ear, but a magnificent coat once we got the mats out. I can’t think where she’d been living before she found us.”

He becomes aware that there’s a presence behind him – some shift in the light, perhaps. The overgrown turf muffles any footfalls.

“She liked cats,” says Crowley. “We just moved so much. Couldn’t have ’em.”

There’s a long case under his arm, closed with metal clasps. “Almost forgot somethin’,” he says, kneeling again to set it on the ground and click it open. There’s a brief heliograph off the silver flute inside before a cloud scuds across the sun again. “Always do this. She was so proud.”

With familiar movements he assembles the flute’s three pieces, seats the mouthpiece exactly so; tilts his head, raises it to his lips and begins to play _Jesu, Joy Of Man’s Desiring._ The German text reads like a love-song: _You, the desire and sunlight of my eyes; you, the treasure and joy of my soul._ Aziraphale, who’s led the student orchestra in countless practice sessions, forms the words soundlessly:

 _Meiner Augen Lust und Sonne,  
_ _Meiner Seele Schatz und Wonne._

The flute falls silent. Crowley doesn’t look up.

“Let’s go,” he says.


	3. More Apple Tarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their first weekend as an engaged couple, Crowley fatalistically floated the idea of being expected to make apple tarts for the Ladies' Beneficial Society. The day has come.

“My dear! What ever – where’s the extinguisher?”

“Sorry – sorry sorry – thought you were late at the library tonight, meant t’be a surprise – “

“Well it is rather. Let’s prop the door open.”

“Nothin’s on fire. Tarts just bubbled over. Got some measurements wrong or something.”

“It smells like the world’s most disastrous crème brulee.”

“Try that next.”

“Goodness, not in my kitchen, I hope.”

“You do those with a propane torch.”

“ _Assuredly_ not in my kitchen, then.”

“Thought it would be a good anniversary dessert. If I can get it right.”

“Which anniversary are we discussing?”

“The uh, um. First. Ah. When we."

“Mm, so when you originally placed Temptation in front of me. Apt.”

“Let me get this out the back. Couple’ve these look burnt, think I can save the rest. Got some Devonshire cream to go with.”

“Oh, you _do_ understand the whole temptation business. Spiffing.”

“Got a big carton so there’s some for Ship.”

“Where ever did the striped apron come from?”

“Deirdre. Gave me her recipe when she brought Adam round to pick. Tree’s loaded, ripe early this year.”

“It suits you. Perhaps you would be good enough to wear it just on its own? The way the ties flick over your backside when you’re panicking about the kitchen. It’s quite flirtatious.”

“It’s _pink._ ”

“Well, so are you when you get a bit excited.”

“Thought you liked me in black.”

“Isn’t there something about _pink is the new blac_ k?”

“About twenty years ago, angel.”

“Hm. Well, you know I don’t like to rush into anything.”

“Just marryin’ a middle-aged disaster flautist you barely knew.”

“Perhaps you bring out the recklessness in me. Speaking of. Did you talk to Deirdre any more about that position that came open?”

“Uh –– yeah. Board meets Saturday. Thinkin’ about it.”

“It does seem natural for you. And I must say it would be nice if you never again had to come back down from Birmingham in such a dreadful mood and using _language_.”

“You like me usin’ language.”

“In certain contexts.”

“Tell me about ’em.”

“Hm. If you’ll accommodate me about the apron. And let your hair down.”

“Like this?”

“You’ve gotten flour in it now. Dear me, it’s amazing what you can evoke from a man who’s passed the half-century mark.” They’d had Aziraphale’s fiftieth birthday party the year before, in Nasturtium Cottage’s garden under the apple tree, with a small group of select friends.

“Be there myself ‘fore you know it.”

“No one would guess, dear.”

“Seein’ a little white here and there – “

“It could just be flour. You must allow me to inspect closely."

“And we’ve got matchin’ reading glasses now – “

“I know, I picked up yours the other day and felt inexplicably disoriented until I realized.”

“Specialize in gettin’ you that way, me.”

“Do you think the tarts will be all right out there in the conservatory? It’s still open on the north side.”

“Ship’ll keep an eye on it. Gotta earn her cream somehow.”

“Oh, I like that phrase. I think I must allow you to earn yours.”

“Use some language?”

“I insist on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will find out more about Tadfield’s latest doings in due course! Come pester me on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


	4. Harmonia Mundi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pillow talk in a country cottage.
> 
>  _“Ah. You would be referring to the_ musica universalis, _the Pythagorean notion that the planets in their revolutions produce identifiable tones based on the mathematics of their orbits. I believe it retained traction in some form right up through the work of Kepler. I’m certain there’s something about it on my bookshelf.”_
> 
> _“How the fuck do you talk like that when you’ve just come?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten very attached to the Greater Tadfield versions of these two, and there'll likely be more of these short vignettes, naughty, sweet or funny as the fit takes me. Imagine them scattered randomly through the timeline of married life.

Sometimes, when Crowley’s lying in Aziraphale’s big bed, he imagines there’s no ceiling to the room, that he’s looking out at a field of stars -- the Milky Way sweeping across the Oxfordshire sky the way it never does in London, a glimmering sash of seedpearls, each one a voice in a heavenly choir. The Music of the Spheres, he’d heard it called, a fluctuating chord uttered by the moons and planets in their revolutions, with the outermost sphere home to all the stars singing at once. A pretty, archaic notion. The organist in that little church in Wystowe had gone on about it.

Before Tadfield, before Aziraphale, Heaven had come to mean the starting point of a recurrent nightmare: falling into the steep gravity well of the Earth, watching the cold fires of space hurtle past like reversed meteors, blazing to a living cinder as he struck the atmosphere. Now, sometimes, he wakes with a sense that the stars have enfolded him in their stately rhythm.

“You make me feel as if I’m finally part of it,” he says, burrowing back against the pillows, rubbing his face in the scented silk that’s Aziraphale’s hair.

“Part of what, dear?” Aziraphale’s learned to be patient with the words that pop out of his husband's mouth when he forgets that no one else can hear what’s inside his head. Learned that what’s in there is at moments deafening to Crowley, thinking everything over five or a hundred times.

“The big cosmic music. Y’know, the people who said everything was singing. Moon ‘n’ stars ‘n’ all like one great big harmonica.”

“Ah. You would be referring to the _musica universalis,_ the Pythagorean notion that the planets in their revolutions produce identifiable tones based on the mathematics of their orbits. I believe it retained traction in some form right up through the work of Kepler. I’m certain there’s something about it on my bookshelf.”

“How the fuck do you talk like that when you’ve just come?”

“Dear. Learning is just another octave of ecstasy.”

Crowley smacks him lightly with a pillow. It seems the only reasonable response. “What I get for marryin’ the librarian.”

“Wasn’t that in a musical show?”

“Thought you didn’t fancy _bebop.”_

“Broadway is not _bebop_ , you raw Philistine.”

“Reckon you’re lookin’ to get tickled.”

“And I must assume _you’re_ seeking chastisement.”

“Mmmpph.” Kissing seems the only reasonable response to _that._

After a little silence Aziraphale says “Truly? If you don’t mind my asking… you said _finally._ I know you'd been – alone a long time, but surely there were times when -- Well, we’re neither of us young. For which I’m actually grateful.”

Crowley looks back up at the ceiling, blinking hard a few times to help himself imagine the starry void.

“Kidded myself once or twice. Y’know, _this is gonna be it_. Always _gonna,_ though. Not feelin’ safe, not feelin’ – like someone cared. Just that they _wanted._ Settled for it.”

“I suppose it is my good fortune, but I’m sorry.” They fit against each other, comfortable, familiar, knowing where the weight of head or arm’s welcome, where feet néed room under the bedclothes.

“Guess it’d been… years, hadn’t even really tried. Guy who asked me – _told_ me to get this – “ He guides Aziraphale’s fingertips to the temple where the stylized serpent displays its redoubled coils -- the thick black arabesque starting to soften with time, the outline losing its sharpness. “Somethin’ I did, dunno, pissed him off, can’t even remember, was _you always_ this and _you never_ that ‘n’… ah, just stuff. Figured people just make up stuff to get stroppy about ‘cos they got bored. Or y’know, like you’d order a wine and send it back. Decided not to give’m the chance any more after that.”

“How churlish. I could never tire of you.”

“Thing’s, I b‘lieve you.”

Mother Shipton, who's only recently decided the inside of the house is safe, chooses this moment to leap on the bed and walk across them both for no apparent reason, seating herself on Aziraphale’s hip to groom one paw with a loud rasp of tongue. Some lingering ailment of her outdoor life means that she sneezes explosively at times and breathes noisily, though the veterinary surgeon in Didcot says she’s sounder than a cart-horse.

“What about you? I mean… wasn’t sure ‘bout you at first, no one seemed to know.”

“Ah, so you _were_ inquiring.”

“Um… I was _wonderin’.”_

“So was I, dear. I wasn’t certain until you asked me to that _boisterous_ entertainment.”

“So there hasn't been – ” _Someone you remember? Someone who loved you_ (but maybe not enough)?

“Well. A long while back. When you’re young, you get your heart broken a few times in the process of finding out who you are. I suppose it’s a universal experience.”

 _Yup_ , thinks Crowley.

“And – well, eventually I found I could meet people who enjoyed -- playing. You learn to find each other, if you frequent the same diversions. People who have – complementary inclinations.” A shiver as fingertips run along the tender underside of Crowley’s arm like a brief gust of air, circle his wrist and slide it above his head. Crowley remembers the first time Aziraphale took hold of him like that, how it undid him. _Oh, I see, I thought possibly._ The memory loosens his limbs as his hand's brought lightly to soft lips, settled at his side again.

“It would always be very discreet, you know – remember, Gabriel and the family were always watching with bated breath for any sign I’d either forfeit the trust money, or snatch it away forever by wedding some hapless ingenue.”

“Ah, that’d be me then.“

“I did rather enjoy keeping them baffled. So it would be Mrs. Young asking _Oh, Mr. Fell, did you have a good weekend in London? You must tell me about the performances you enjoyed – “_

_“Thpffftttt– “_

“Well, of course there’d always be a _bit_ of that, St. Martin in the Fields, you know, or the Royal Opera. Or a gallery exhibit. It was where you met people, so of course you’d go on spending time there once you’d become, ah, acquainted. It's how I know anything at all about modern musical shows, not my first choice, but one accommodates a friend's taste. It was very civilised.”

Crowley tries to be jealous of the _very civilised_ partners in Aziraphale’s past and fails entirely. Well, almost.

“But, you know, they’d find a perfect situation, only it meant moving halfway across the country or the world. Or they’d find The One. And of course I wouldn’t. I never grudged it, we’d always understood we were just sharing a pleasure, like a concert or an opera, and that something like that might end things… And then there was less of it, and Tadfield seemed to have everything I really needed, and -- You were the first time I’ve felt that way since. Well. The first time.”

Mother Shipton chooses her moment, having waited until a quaver enters Aziraphale’s voice to walk across Crowley’s face and leap thuddingly to the floor with maximum gracelessness. “Personal space,” splutters Crowley. Then, more quietly: “You were gonna let me go.”

“Pressuring you would also have been churlish. How would I know for certain, when I sensed you longed so much for someone to tell you what to do? It mattered that you chose freely.”

“Think that’s why I wasn’t afraid to stay.”

He doesn’t reach the point of tears now – there’ve been a few times, alchemical tears that come from nowhere and distil a lifetime of guardedness out of his body – but there’s something like the same welling release as he snuggles closer. The soft sound of Aziraphale’s heart is the slow rhythm of the heavens. _Harmonia Mundi,_ folding him in.

“Angel.” It’s spoken blurrily, into the pillow.

Mother Shipton leaps back up, onto his head this time. It’s a reliably warm place.

“Intrusive beast,” says Aziraphale. Then: “You know my life was quite pleasant as it was. I didn’t dare imagine it could be perfect. Like a lovely chord that lacked just that one note.”

The cat purrs noisily, a steady drone broken by snuffles. Aziraphale strokes thick fur and long red hair, turn about.

“I can move her,” he says. But Crowley’s asleep.

_finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the while I was writing this I was earworming a passage from Orff -- let us remember that Maestro Beatrice Zingarelli is known for their Orff interpretations -- specifically, the opera/oratorio _De Temporum Fine Commedia_ , the Masque of the End of Time. It's a difficult piece, and a lot of it gives me hives, but it recurs to me in the context of Good Omens, because the libretto opposes a Sibylline prophecy of the Apocalypse with a chorus of anchorites insisting that God would never immolate their own creation or abandon even the damned. At the end, Satan confesses his sin -- _Pater, Peccavi_ \-- and is returned to grace, and a motet borrowed from Bach commences, over a sustained, droning glass-harmonica chord which is as close to my imagined Music Of The Spheres as anything's ever come. (I heard it in a dream once, and Orff got it near as dammit.) [Listen to that short passage here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KEe43EVsO-c)


End file.
